Haunted Vessels
by BowtieJunkie
Summary: By the time the rescue team reaches them, Scott McCall has stopped breathing. (AU)
1. Interference

**A/N: Well, here's another plot bunny that ran away. For now, it's a two-shot, but I do have plenty of plot planned if I do continue this in the future. Here's my obligatory space AU (complete with sci-fi space ghosts, because why not). Please know that major character death occurs within the first two chapters, although I will say it's not for long. Enjoy~**

**Edit: Well, my only defense is that I couldn't stay away. No longer a two-shot.**

* * *

"I'm telling you man, have you seen those stats?"

His friend, looking ridiculous as usual, half-in and half-out of his burnt orange suit, shrugs noncommittally. "I don't see what's so strange about them, Stiles."

"Not strange," Stiles say. "Cool!"

"Cool?"

"Amazing! Fantastic! Whatever ostentatious adjective floats your boat, man."

Obviously, the choice of words passes completely over his friend's head. Scott pulls his leg out of one side of the suit like it might snap at him. "Yeah, okay," he mutters, attempting to kick off the other leg without touching the outside of the suit. Stiles is taking his own off with slightly less dramatics.

"A little radiation isn't going to kill you," Stiles offers helpfully when Scott makes an expression like he might want to die right now rather than touch the stretchy material currently draped over his right foot again.

"A little radiation? Stiles, it's like crazy high. You said so yourself earlier!"

"I said the stats on the planetary atmosphere were cool, not that they were dangerous."

"Stiles, you say everything is cool–"

"It's kinda like an elevated form of our planet's rays, dude. Actually, that's exactly what it is. The most that's gonna happen is your kids might be mutated in the future if you and Allison ever get back together." Which isn't exactly true, but the expression on Scott's face and the panicked glance down is definitely worth the half truth. "Seriously though, it's not clinging to your suit. I've done this a thousand times before. You're fine."

Scott shudders and shakes his head. "I still don't like it."

"These suits are good," Stiles says, taking on a more reassuring tone. "I promise."

Though they've been friends forever, they've only recently started working together in the same department, after Scott was transferred from maintenance on another sector to this one. Stiles never got the full story, but he remembers gossip about Scott and his relationship with pretty, young Allison Argent, one of the guards. Apparently, whatever happened between them following their break-up was severe enough for the ship's chief engineer, the chilling Lydia Martin, to request a change of positions for McCall. Not that it really matters why it happened or what caused it. Stiles is just happy he's finally got a partner for a two-man job he's been flying solo on for a few months.

"Come on, if it makes you feel better, lunch's on me," Stiles says, watching Scott pluck the last fold of his suit off. The fabric falls limply to the ground, and for a second there, it looks like Scott is half considering kicking it, or maybe setting it on fire.

"Um, sure." Scott sounds distracted, but when doesn't he? "Wait… we don't pay for lunch."

"Ah, see? Your ears are still working just fine."

Stiles waits by the door, hands in his pocket, and when Scott joins him, Stiles leads the way down the hall. They walk down mostly empty hallways, some only partially lit, and take the lift at the end of one of the more well lit ones. With the cost of keeping a fully crewed ship, it's understandable that Green Sciences, their employer, mostly keeps the year-round residence down to a skeleton crew. Just enough people to do the job, and no more. At least it keeps them from getting pay cuts when the economy takes a turn for the worst.

He tries to keep up the conversation, but it's pretty obvious Scott isn't invested. He shrugs it off and resolves to get his daily quota of human interaction during the lunch break. Maybe he can get a word in with Lydia. Though, on second thought, he doesn't really want to sit through the horrible glares he always gets from the handler.

Jackson Whittemore heads the crew that directly keeps up with the species they're shipping. It's a hard job, sure, and one Stiles has always wanted to have, but he doesn't see all the fuss about it. Jackson may have to handle the aliens, but Stiles has a pretty cool job too. Atmospheric control is _very_ rewarding.

Okay, that might be a slight exaggeration…

There aren't a whole lot of people in the cafeteria by the time they get there, which makes sense because the routine checks took a little longer today than they usually do. Some kind of weird interference in the computer's sensors that gets Stiles' blood pumping. It's exciting. That means there's something cool and out of the norm going on. Scott doesn't feel the same.

Stiles gets his tray, not even attempting to figure out what the hell they're trying to pass as food today, and drops down next to the janitor. Isaac Lahey is kind of jumpy and always looks about half a second away from bolting whenever Stiles corners him to 'socialize', but at least he pretends to listen when Stiles brings Scott along. If Stiles had any kind of civil couth, or lack thereof, he'd try to set them up together, if only for the guarantee that Isaac would be forced to be his friend through Scott. But he isn't sure who bats for what team, and at the moment Scott is obviously enamored with 'lovely, wonderful, perfect Allison.' Bleh.

"Hey, Isaac." Stiles say, beaming. And if he didn't know any better, he'd think he'd saw the curly haired boy repress a shudder.

"Stiles," he mutters, pursing his lips.

Scott slides in next to Stiles and offers Isaac a nod and one of his blinding puppy-dog smiles. It has the desired effect, and Isaac smiles back, a snarky little curl to his lip.

It takes several more attempts at conversation to get either of his lunch companions to acknowledge him, more in favor of wolfing down the offensive looking sludge masquerading as… meatloaf? than paying attention to Stiles' stunted efforts to chat. He's finally got them to both look up at the same time when the ship gives a horrible shudder and the lights flicker off.

"Damn it," someone grumbles not too far away.

It's pitch black in the cafeteria. Stiles can hear Scott resume eating next to him, and Isaac slide over on his bench, tapping worriedly on his tray. This isn't an irregular occurrence. A lot of long-term vessels, especially older ones like this one, have trouble transferring gravitational systems when they cross into new sectors. Occasionally there's a power trip, especially when all of the biomes are occupied. It just means that Stiles and Scott are probably going to have to cut their lunch breaks.

He sighs as the steady thrum of the back-up generators rumble through the near silent interior of the ship. They'll be cutting their lunch breaks sooner than later, then. Stiles forces himself to take a few bites of his lunch as the main motor of the ship hums to life below them. Already back and soon to be up and running. _Great._ Stiles grabs his tray and climbs out of his seat, dumping it into the nearby bin. Scott sluggishly follows with one of those world weary sighs like he's lost all faith in humanity. Stiles isn't too far behind him.

This is the second time in the past week they've dealt with power outages. If Stiles didn't know how old the ship was, he'd almost be tempted to blame it all on engineering. As it is, his dad was an officer on this ship way back when he'd only just joined the force, and as far as long-term running vessels go, this one's practically ancient. But they're working with what they've got…

They pass Jackson in the hall, who is busy yelling at a couple of the younger so-called 'wranglers', and mission control officer… what was his name again? Vernon Boyd, or something like that, trailed by one of the doctors, Erica Reyes. She's got her arms full of towels and bandages, and both of them are walking fast enough that Stiles wonders if something in the control room must have exploded. He sure hopes Lydia is okay. And the others too… Yeah, can't forget about them.

Scott stops at the door when they get to their locker room and stares at the horrible pile of discarded protective clothing, though a quick tap on the shoulder from Stiles and he's into motion again.

As he's pulling on his own suit again, Stiles let's his mouth go. "I know we've got time, since the atmospheres usually stay stable if the power's out too long, but I'm a little worried about that one biome with the heightened concentration of x-rays. The controls were a little wonky last time. I mean, we might actually have to go in and recalibrate the system."

Scott lets out a little of breath. "I sure hope not. Aren't those bad?"

"Naw," Stiles says shrugging. "We'd only be in there for ten minutes, tops, and the suits offer protection for that long. We get exposed to more as passengers on this ship."

"If you say so," Scott says, zipping up the last part before slipping his helmet under his arm.

"If anything, I'd be more worried about the levels of Nitrogen Dioxide."

Scott groans.


	2. Asphyxiate

The control room they work from is semicircular, with one wall entirely made up of dimly glowing screens with charts and graphs and security footage. Stiles has always liked it. It reminds his of the old movies his dad would show him from when he was a kid. Science fiction, they called it, but it's more of a reality than fiction now. Stiles likes that he has to walk around to see all of the data, because it helps him when he can't sit still.

Scott still hasn't been working here long enough to have the same uncanny amount of accuracy that Stiles has when it comes to reading the machines. He stands in the back, leaning against a swivel chair and stares forlornly at one of the blinking screens as Stiles moves around in a flurry of flailing limbs as he makes stops by each screen, muttering under his breath the whole while.

Most of the readings are still accurate, or at least, enough so that they don't really need to do anything until the next time they service them. Some of them are a little odd, but otherwise normal enough that he's not too worried. The only one that looks like it needs work, which has him sighing and tempted to bang his head against the nearest hard surface, is the very one he'd been worried about. The methane levels are unnaturally high, which is displacing the oxygen and causing a pretty concerning fire hazard, which is about the last thing they need this far from any rescue stations. Taming the conditions in the biome takes first priority.

Stiles has taken kindly to calling this one 'Mordor', after the place in this really old book his great-grandmother sent him on his fifteenth birthday years ago, because of all of the heat and the fairly dangerous inhabitants of the biome. He names all of the biomes after fictional places. No one ever understands the references. The lack of love for classic literature disheartens him.

"Looks like we're walking into Mordor, Frodo," he says as he makes his way over to Scott.

Scott raises a brow. "What?" he asks.

"Nothing." Stiles says with another drawn out sigh. "I'm going to call this in with Jackson so they can clear out the control section. We need to reset the sensors and then take some samples. You get the equipment."

His friend nods dutifully and leaves the room and Stiles takes a deep breath to prepare for the inevitable dreadfulness of actually talking to that asshole Whittemore. He presses the comlink on one of the back computers and drops into the swivel chair to wait for an answer. Jackson's voice finally comes through, all crackly and strange. More interference. It must be one of the nearby planets.

"–Stilinski?"

"I need you to send a team down to B03." He cuts right to the chase. No need for pleasantries with Jackson, who wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire and sure as hell doesn't care for atmospheric analysts, such as Stiles. He thinks they're below him. "And make sure they're suited up," he adds. "We haven't had time to evaluate it yet, but it's potentially fatal."

"–like you f–think I'm sending a team–unprotected–" The static is horrible.

"Yeah, um, okay. So, we'll be in in twenty minutes. That okay?"

"Whatever." Asshole.

Scott gets back just as the line cuts off. He's got the measuring equipment, and he slides the extra pack off his shoulder and passes it to Stiles. "Everything alright?" he asks.

Stiles laughs. "Yeah, man. Everything's cool."

When they arrive at Mordor, or B03, Jackson looks fairly ruffled as he's exiting the containment gate. In lieu of greeting, he fixes Stiles with his dirtiest glare and says, "I hope you're happy with yourself Stilinski." He doesn't wait for a response, just pushes past them both. "Those damn aliens put up a fight."

"They were probably scared," Scott offers sincerely, but Stiles doesn't know why he even tries.

Jackson sniffs and turns around. "They keep this up and I'll give them a reason to be scared. This better not take long."

"It won't," says Stiles, flipping up the hood of his suit. He fastens the pack on his back and starts to pull up the mask as Scott mirrors him from where he's standing. They reach the gate with Jackson still muttering behind them. Stiles nods in greeting to Danny Mahealani, a member of Jackson's crew and offers Allison Argent a smile. It's all very routine. Nothing out of the ordinary. So why does he have this odd feeling?

Scott tries to say hello to his ex, but Allison frowns and Stiles quickly pulls him away before they can make a scene.

Within the next five minutes, they enter the biome.

B03 contains the native species of a recently discovered planet. The species isn't very technologically advanced and there wasn't much to salvage when they landed to pick them up. The 'civilization' had collapsed and most of the unintelligent species had perished. The only reason the yet unnamed natives had survived was their hardiness and their ability to… do something similar to photosynthesizing. Many people at the industry were against touching down, insisting that reaching out to this planet was a waste of time, that natural selection should take precedence. In fact, Green Sciences never would have touched down if not for a generous donation by the Hale family, who had maintained colonies there for a number of years. It was apparently enough money to qualify a rescue.

The inside of the biome is warm and humid, and Stiles can already feel the suit clinging to his clothes and his skin. The ground is hard packed and the trees, if you can call them that, come right up to the gate. From there, all Stiles can see are the trunks and the beginnings of a slope. A brownish smoky mist winds between them, filtering up into the ceiling so that it actually feels as if they'd stepped into another world. The colors are muted and it is dead silent in the biome. Stiles can't even hear the familiar rumble of the engines. Sometimes the technology packed into these ships amazes him.

Scott looks awestruck, and Stiles remembers belatedly that he's never taken his friend into B03 before. "Just don't touch anything," he says through the comm.

Scott nods. "I know."

Stiles adjusts his pack and starts on the trek to the far east side of the biome. It's a reminder of how old the ship is, that the controls aren't somewhere more easily accessible. The apparent defense of the placement of these is that most of the species they transport stay in the central area or near the gate, and usually won't mess with the control systems if they're out of the way. Stiles is pretty sure if they wanted to mess with the control systems, they would do so regardless of the placement. But what does he know? He's just a lowly atmospheric control specialist.

"Keep up," he says, when he notices Scott trailing a little farther behind. The suits may protect them from the atmosphere, but not from ambushes. If Jackson's wranglers missed one of the natives, there may be safety in numbers, but there's no argument for human capability when it comes to taking on something twice one's size. Scott gets closer a lot faster.

One last glance back, and Stiles sets his mind to making it into the control panel. He steps through the gnarled branches of one of the 'trees' and feels around for the wall that he knows is there. He finds the indention and presses down and the orangish backdrop fades to a metallic silver and then becomes transparent, and the seams of a door become apparent. It slides open.

"Alright, I know training is important, but uh, just let me fix this so we can get out of here as fast as we can." He doesn't add anything about the bad feeling, but he's been friends with Scott long enough that the message is immediately understood.

"I'll keep watch."

"Thanks, man," Stiles says, and he pats Scott on the shoulder before stepping through.

The control panel is a compact space. The receptacles and some of the older sensors are housed here, but there's very little stored inside beyond that. Most of the bigger stuff runs along the floor beneath the biomes, and sometimes Stiles finds himself questioning why the people that refurbished the ship didn't just reroute the sensors earlier. It would take a lot of the danger out of the job, which Stiles would miss, but he knows would be more practical in the long run.

His fingers brush over the wiring until he finds the right one, singed and sparking slightly. He'll need to replace it and then manually adjust the nitrogen dioxide and oxygen levels, and then recalibrate the system, and he needs to work fast. He sets into motion immediately, clipping the wires and running a new one to replace them, and then turns to the other side for the chromatograph, hands hovering over the buttons. Just as he's moving the one for nitrogen, a faint buzzing sound, like static, fills the air.

Stiles pauses and, in his confusion glances outside. Scott stares back, eyes wide and limbs snapping into a stiff defensive position. Stiles can feel the hair rising on the back of his neck and he suppresses a shiver. Even in the heat of B03, he can feel a chill pass through his body. He looks up as the light above him flickers, and then blinks off.

On. Off. On. Off. On. Off.

His hands are still paused over the controls.

The light stops flickering, but Stiles can't tear his eyes away. He can feel the panic rising, the bile in his throat, and he can't breath. It's like someone tore the mask from his suit.

The ship gives a great shudder, and then jerks, knocking him on his back and forcing the air from his lungs, and everything goes black. For a second, he sits in the pitch black hearing nothing but his shallow breathing in the silence. The emergency lights in the control panel switch on, muted and off-color, and Stiles watches, unable to move, as the glass door to the tiny room slowly slides shut. One of the protocols in the case of a blackout while the biomes are occupied... Scott's still form lies on the ground outside, and—

Shit, how could he be so stupid. He hadn't forgot about those stupid protocols, he'd completely ignored them because he figured it would be faster if he went in alone… And oh god, why isn't Scott _moving_?

Panic paralyzes him for a moment before the distant sound of an alarm breaks him out of his trance. "Scott!" It takes a few tries to push himself to his knees. There's a sharp pain in his back, but he has to… he can't… "Scott, get up!" He uses the ledge to pull himself up and braces himself against the wall until he reaches the glass.

He knows it's useless, the door is made from an alloy of palladium, the same stuff that lines the outer windows of the ship, and there's no way he's getting through, but his body moves of it's own accord. He tries pulling the edges, tries smashing it with some of the equipment, tries kicking it, though all that achieves is sending him arching over in another wave of pain.

There are tears in his eyes when Scott finally moves. He sits up slowly, like it physically pains him to move, and he still faces out into the biome and away from Stiles.

Stile takes a breath. He knows the comms won't work, not to call for help, but his finger presses against the button nevertheless. "Please, if anyone can hear me. Stiles Stilinski, B03. We need a crew down here. We're not equipped for a long term situation. I think… I think we may need a medic. Please… hurry."

Stiles watches Scott and his finger hovers over the switch on his comm. Short range is battery operated. The signal shouldn't be blocked, not if Scott will move close enough. "Come on, Scott," he mutters under his breath. "Come on."

After a moment, Scott pushes to his feet, drawn towards the sole source of light in the biome, the faint luminescence of the control panel. He stumbles, and Stiles can't catch a good glimpse of any damage, but his heart lifts to see his friend alive.

Stiles knocks on the glass and forces a smile and waves. They're gonna be okay.

And then Scott looks up.

The light from the control panel hits him just right. The hood of his suit is completely shattered, skin already bruising and cuts marring his face where the glass fell through, his nose dripping slowly. He's breathing fast, so fast, and Stiles doesn't know why he didn't notice the frantic movements of his shoulders before. Scott's eyes are already growing dull, and Stiles knows. He just knows, from somewhere deep inside, what's happening.

Scott stops moving when reaches the glass, dropping down and clutching his chest. He knows too.

Stiles moves slowly to the ground next to Scott, putting a hand on the glass. Scott winces and brings his own hand up. "It's gonna be okay, Scott."

Scott shakes his head.

"Just breath. Slowly." Stiles' voice shakes. "The power will come on any minute now, and they'll send in a rescue team. Jackson will be so mad. He'll lecture us for weeks." He laughs, and it sounds completely wrong leaving his lips.

Scott tries to laugh, but it comes out as more of a wheeze and turns into a barking cough that leaves him shaking in place. More blood drips down his chin.

"Allison will definitely kiss you after this, man. She'll realize her mistake." Stiles closes eyes and leans against the glass. His helmet blocks most of it, but he can imagine the warm glass against his forehead. "You guys will get married, and I'll have to waste half my vacation days to help you plan it, right?"

"Stiles."

"Maybe I'll get with Lydia by then. We'd really make Jackson mad."

"Stiles…"

"What do you think about double weddings?"

"Stiles, please—" Scott breaks off into another coughing fit, and suddenly all of this is real. Stiles can't pretend it isn't happening anymore, that Scott isn't choking to death on his own lungs outside, that his suit isn't broken enough to let in all of the chemicals and heat and God knows what else.

"Scott, don't do this to me, man." Stiles looks up and tears sting his eyes. "You can't okay? You just got here. We… y-you can't."

Scott slumps forward against the door, breath coming now in gasps. "I'm sorry." His voice barely carries over the comms. "I'm so sorry…"

"Scott, no…" Stiles bangs on the glass and Scott barely flinches in response. "Stay awake, okay? Just keep breathing." _Please keep breathing_. "Scott? Scott!"

Scott's eyes begin to slide closed, and his chin rests awkwardly on his chest, and damn it, there's nothing Stiles can do about it. He's losing his best friend. And all of the panic hits him at once, full-force, and he's a kid again waking from those horrible nightmares, and there's nothing he can do but scream Scott's name and bang on this god-forsaken glass because oh god, Scott's not breathing. Why isn't he breathing? He doesn't care if the pain in his back is worse and his legs are beginning to numb, doesn't care that his own suit is quickly running out of it's small supply oxygen, that the darkening in the edge of his vision continues to spread and grow… His best friend is out there and he isn't moving.

By the time someone arrives, Stiles' voice is hoarse and breathing is difficult, and he's slipped into the quiet realm between consciousness and unconsciousness. By the time the rescue team reaches them, Scott McCall has stopped breathing.


	3. Messenger

**A/N: It gets better after this, I promise.**

* * *

It's warm and Stiles feels light and fuzzy, like lazy summer afternoons he and his dad spent home. He can almost smell the freshly mowed grass and hear the sprinklers running in the front yard. He thinks he could stay like this forever, eyes closed and skin absorbing the warm heat of the sun.

When he opens his eyes, the illusion breaks. He's greeted by the familiar chill of the ship and a soft rhythmic beeping to his right. He stares upwards, trying to remember where he is and why he isn't home anymore, and how, even in this haze, sharp pain pulses in his lower back. It all comes back by the time Doctor Reyes walks in. She smiles at him, though her eyes retain the usual sharpness, and fiddles with the machinery. "Nice to see you back, Stilinski." She doesn't look up from the IV when she speaks, and when she presses a button, the warmth fills him again.

"Wouldn't normally use these." She turns to him. "A bit outdated, but we're low on resources and the Wranglers needed most of our better stuff after that last outage."

Stiles squints, picks at the band on his wrist and clears his throat. "What about Scott?"

"Oh, well… He, uh…" She swallows and opens her mouth a few times before finding the words. "He didn't need any of that. So… just get some rest. We'll be docking at Aritr soon, so someone will be up to talk to you in a couple of hours. Run over some… stuff." She breathes out through her nose and looks back at one of the monitor screens. "Hopefully they'll give me some new equipment to work with or Danvil is getting my fist in his overly large nose." That last part is an actual growl. Then a switch flips and it's back to beautiful, charming Erica Reyes. Stiles thinks they could have a thing if he ever gets over Lydia. "Get some sleep, sweetheart. I'll have some food brought up, but no stress if you can't stomach it. I will have you know, it's a little better than standard fare, so…"

She leaves in a hurry after that, never really giving Stiles a chance to get a word in. He can't help the gut feeling that something's definitely wrong, but there's not really anything he can do from here. He settles in and lets the painkillers kick in and wash over him in waves. The food comes an hour later, brought in by Isaac who doesn't help Stiles' worry with the clear fear in his eyes. He shakes his head when Stiles slurs a question and promptly runs off. Stiles picks at the food, but it just makes his stomach turn and he lays back to wait.

The ships shudders about two hours later and it's fairly obvious they've landed at the outpost in Aritr when the lights brighten and everything hums to full power below them. That means repairs are already underway, and hopefully the shipments will be coming in within the half hour. He tries to sit up, fails miserably, and then burrows deeper in the pillows. As far as outposts go, Atrir is fairly large. They're equipped for larger vessels and are more reliable when it comes to filling shipping requests. Stiles has always liked exploring the warehouses, though he's pretty sure since the last time he and Scott were let loose on it, there have been some new restrictions added. Most of them are their fault, although Stiles is adamant they were all accidents and Scott got them out of most of the punishment with that sad puppy eyes thing he does. Fun times. He doesn't think he or Scott will be in the condition to cause chaos this time anyways, since he's laid up in the medical quarters and he's pretty sure Scott is too.

Erica comes in again, though she knocks on the door and leans against the open doorway. "How's it goin', science boy?"

Stiles manages to smile back. "Not too shabby." His voice is horrible. "Still sore. Food was… okay."

"Just okay?" She frowns.

"You got my hopes up."

This is the point where she'd normally give him a playful shove, but he guesses it's different when he's under her care. "That's why I have a medical license, not a food critiquing license."

"Is that even a thing?"

"You bet your ass it is, sweetheart." She crosses her arms. "But really, how is your back feeling?"

"It hurts to sit up," Stiles says, sighing.

"Well, it's gonna hurt for a while, kid. You're lucky you can still feel your toes." Erica gestures behind her and burly officer Vernon Boyd steps past her and into the room. "We're going to move you into one of the rooms in the outpost while we're docked. They've got better equipment, and it'll be easier to get you on your feet. Besides," she glances at Boyd, "there's someone who needs to talk to you."

"How long are we docked?" Stiles starts to try to sit up again, despite the sharp pain in his lower spine.

"Relax," Erica says flippantly. "We're not leaving you behind. You're the head of maintenance for the ship. Besides, we'd be leaving a lot of other members behind if we didn't stop. We're already a skeleton crew as it is." There's a dark note in her voice. Boyd huffs.

They load him on a gurney and Boyd and Erica wheel him through a, not surprisingly empty ship. "You were the last patient in the medical bay to be hauled off," she explains.

"I really feel the love," Stiles replies, and both of his companions chuckle.

The room he gets is a lot bigger and much more… white-washed. He's not sure if he likes it. He almost prefers the rusted browns of the Triskelion's medical bay. They have Stiles hooked up and settled within minutes and Erica tells him to stay put before ushering Boyd out and leaving him alone. He dozes, tries to get back to that warm, happy place before he woke up. It doesn't really work, but it's better than staring at the ceiling and getting fidgety. The sound of voices outside rouses him.

They're hushed, but in the way people do when they're trying to argue quietly. He catches a few words here and there, his name once, McCall, B03… He doesn't get anything of substance. Just as he's considering trying to move closer, the door hisses open and a very angry-looking man storms in. Whoever he was talking to steps out of view before Stiles can get a better look, so he refocuses on the man before him. While he doesn't quite remember the face, he does recognize the insignia on the man's jacket.

"Captain," he greets, voice wavering. His kind doesn't usually get these kinds of visits, unless they're Stiles' dad, who's a different story entirely.

The man's face softens. "Mr. Stilinski, I'm Chris Argent with the Republic of Ilodelos." He reaches out and as Stiles shakes his hand he remembers where he's heard the name before. It must show on his face, because the captain smiles a little and says, "You work with my daughter. I believe your name has come up before."

"All good things, I hope," Stiles rasps.

Argent gives a single jerky nod. "How are you feeling, son?"

Stiles hesitates. "Better, much better, but…" He doesn't think high-ranking officials have the time to go about asking how maintenance workers are feeling, even ones that took part in the fallout between his daughter and her now ex-boyfriend.

Chris Argent clears his throat and looks down at his hand, expression reminiscent of Erica's right after Stiles had woke up. The man moves slowly, pulls over a chair, and sinks into it like it's the last place he'd like to be at the moment. Stiles tries to steady his breathing. Nothing is wrong, just a friendly conversation. It's _fine_.

"I'll… I'll admit I wasn't the first pick for this, and I hate to… I'm sorry if this ruins your opinion of me." And if that doesn't scare Stiles enough, Captain Argent looks up and his eyes are dark and humorless.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm sorry," he starts, and Stiles knows this tone. He's heard it before, years ago. He doesn't want the captain to finish. Stiles starts shaking his head before Argent can't get another word out.

"Please don't, please," is just about all he manages before the room grows blurry around him and the prick of tears fills his eyes.

Argent looks torn, but his face hardens again to a less aggressive version of the one when he first entered the room and he presses on. "Scott McCall was pronounced dead before he left the biome." The words cut through whatever walls Stiles had managed to throw up after the accident in seconds. He feels...

Stiles shakes his head harder, wills the words away. It's not true. It's not. Scott is in the next room over and he's okay.

"Allison told me you were his closest friend, that you would need to know first." Argent's voice barely shakes. "I'm here to answer any questions you may have and help you any way I can, but I need you to stay with me, okay?"

Stiles' head feels light, the same way he does before a panic attack, but he know this is worse. It's not something his breathing techniques will help with. It's not that easy. Thinking only makes it worse, but he can't stop. Can't stop running those last seconds of consciousness over and over in his head.

"Mr. Stilinski?"

He closes his eyes, and takes a few shaky breaths. "He was okay… He didn't..."

"You remember what happened?"

Stiles nods but doesn't open his eyes. This isn't happening.

"When the second outage occurred in the ship, communications went down and almost all biomes malfunctioned." Stiles knows this. He was there. "Some of the falling debris punctured Mr. McCall's suit and exposed him to the toxic environment as well as the reduced oxygen levels of the biome. Coupled with a medical history of asthma, it caused him to lose consciousness. He was legally declared dead by the time the crew restored the power and deployed a rescue team." Argent's voice moves slow and soothing over the words, as if he were reading a bedtime story or calming an animal rather than delivering horrible news. Stiles chokes on a breath and his knuckles are white where his fists bunche around the sheets.

"He's not… he isn't…" He doesn't manage to force the words out and they give way to near hysterical breathing.

Captain Argent reaches out and grips his shoulder, which should be more comforting, but isn't. "He didn't suffer, Stiles. I promise he didn't suffer. He slipped away before he could feel any pain."

But all Stiles can think of is the blood on Scott's face and the shards of glass, the grim acceptance and the light leaving Scott's eyes, a memory hazy in Stiles' panic. He feels like throwing up, because suddenly it hits him. His best friend in the whole world is _dead_. He's a kid again, getting the news for the first time, and it stills hurts just as much as it did before.

He's half aware of the frantic beeping next to him as his heartbeat races and he gives into the throes panic and pain and shock, because his brain still hasn't caught up yet and his body is ploughing through all of these feeling that haven't surfaced since Mom died. His hands hurt where he's got a death grip on the bed and he pulls in a big breath and holds it, still shaking. He kind of wants to pass out. Wants to go back to the warm place before he woke up, before Argent came into the room, before…

Argent hesitates, hand still on his shoulder, before moving to sit at the edge of the bed. "It's okay, son," his voice cuts through Stiles' desperation. "You don't have to be brave right now."

Stiles lets go.


	4. Goodnight, Allison

"Stiles, wake up."

Something hits the bed next to his face. He groans and rolls onto his stomach, pushing his face into the pillow. "Go away." It's muffled, but if the huff across the room is any sign, it's understandable.

Another something hits the wall right above his bed and he can feel it land on his shoulder. "Dude, they've been calling you for like thirty minutes. Get up, Stiles."

Stiles uses his arms and pushes up until he's sitting on his knees, hair every which direction and blanket half hanging off the bed frame. He blinks a few times, adjusts to the light and then squints in the direction of his annoying, living alarm clock. "Jesus, it's 3am," he says when he notices the actual clock on the desk.

"Duty calls." His companion's voice is chipper, and Stiles is absolutely disgusted.

He looks back to the other bed, grimacing at its occupant."Ugh, if you're so awake, why didn't you answer it?"

Scott grins back at him. "The call's for you, not me. Besides, I don't think it's too bad. The yellow light on your receiver only just turned orange."

Stiles turns to his receiver in horror. "Shit!" He tumbles out of his cot and nearly hits his head on the nearby chair. The blanket is tangled around his feet and he can hear Scott laughing as he rolls around and tries to kick it off. "I'm gonna kill you," he growls through the part of the blanket that's fallen over his face.

Scott snorts. "You'd have to catch me first."

"You underestimate how fast I can run when it's 3am and I'm angry. Better get your running shoes on now, buddy."

It takes a few seconds to recover, but he's on his feet and moving steadily to the desk before something hits him as totally wrong. He's not sure what but…

"You okay?" Scott looks worried. "You stopped."

"What happened to your receiver?" Stiles steps forward, moves his out of the way, and starts sifting through the mess for Scott's receiver.

Scott looks to his cleared area of the desk as if it's only just occurred to him. "Huh, that's weird. I could have sworn it was here just a few minutes ago."

Stiles' hands are shaking. He doesn't know why.

Spurred by a gut feeling, which he has learned never to ignore, he glances around the room for the rest of Scott's stuff. Some things are in place, but others… "Scott, where's your dad's jacket?" It's not hanging in the designated space, and that's one of the few things Stiles knows Scott never lets out of his sight.

"It's right there," Scott says, pointing to a box by the door.

Stiles steps over to it. It's sealed shut and labelled with Scott's full name and his mother's address. He turns quickly. "Why is it in this–?"

The bed is empty. He's alone.

It all comes crashing back.

His knees buckle when it hits him and he suddenly remembers the sharp pain in his back and the silence of a dead ship. Scott's dead. He wasn't there because his body is in the morgue, Stiles saw it moved, and they're taking him back to be buried in his family plot. It wasn't real. He's alone again and he was just seeing things. He was dreaming again. A dream.

But the flashing orange of his receiver is not.

He stumbles to his feet and reaches the desk, nearly jams his finger when he presses the button. Whittemore's face snarls into existence on his desktop and Stiles straightens and tries to discreetly wipe the sweat dripping from his chin.

"Stilinski, we've been trying to reach you for," he looks down offscreen, "thirty-five minutes."

Stiles swallows and steadies himself against the table. "Sorry, I was… away."

Jackson's scowl deepens. "You know you're supposed to keep it on you at all times."

"I know, but…" He can't think of an excuse that isn't shitty or ridiculous, and the truth is out of question especially with Jackson. He lets it trail off. It's silent for a breath except for the receiver beeping.

"Don't try to make excuses, Stilinski," Jackson says finally, face morphing into a mix of his usual annoyance and a hint of pity. "We need you on the bridge. A07 went haywire and none of the engineers know what to do."

"Interference?"

"Something. We were hoping you would know."

Stiles glances back at Scott's empty bed. "I'll be there in five."

"You better." Click. The screen goes blank.

Stiles gets to his feet.

They're a few months from home. They left the outpost one month ago. Stiles let out the remnants of his bottled up emotions over several calls to his dad, and now he divides his time between working constantly on the biomes to keep them stable just long enough for delivery and collapsing into bed at the end of the day. It's better than the few days they managed to keep him in the hospital. At least now he can move around and get lost in his work instead of being stuck in a bed with his pain pills and his own imagination.

He thought he'd escaped his imagination.

That hallucination, which he's certain that's what it was, was awfully realistic. He mulls over asking Erica for something stronger as he walks to the bridge. The more detached he feels, the less he worries about recent events. Recent events which he definitely does not think about. Ever.

It's like the whole crew turned up in the bridge, and he can barely squeeze through all of the milling people. He manages, however, after a forceful shove through Greenburg that he can't find himself to regret. Captain Yukimura stands to the side, his daughter and one other woman that Stiles doesn't recognize looking over his shoulder. Jackson and Lydia are arguing in hushed voices in the corner. Isaac and Boyd stand like statues in the far side of the room, both watching Stiles as he pushes his way to the front. Allison disappears behind a flashing screen. One of the techs, Danny, gestures him over as soon as he sees him.

"Hey, Stiles, glad you could make it." His tone is gentle, but he seems rushed and his hand clamps on Stiles' shoulder as soon as he's within reach. Danny steers Stiles over to a monitor to his left and pushes him down in the seat in front of it. "What can you tell me about this?" He taps one of the charts with his nail. Stiles leans forward for a closer look and lets the experience of years of doing this very job take over.

Immediately his mouth starts moving. "Looks like nitrogen is good, but you never filed anything for hydrogen, and other levels are rapidly dropping. There's no outside reports of it either, so it's either still in the biome and the sensors are off. At best you've got a leak in one of the vents and the AI is trying to compensate."

"At worst?"

Stiles shrugs. "It could be anything. I can tell you though, if it isn't a leak in the ventilation, you need to get someone to check the tanks–"

Danny immediately turns to the crowd behind him and calls out orders. He turns back. "Okay, what else?"

"Occupants messing with the panels? I mean, they're easy to find, and if A07 was put there against their will, they probably want to sabotage us."

Danny huffs a laugh. "It's a wonder they haven't done it sooner. Keep looking, I'll get Jack-ass on it."

Normally, Stiles would jump on the chance to come up with more names for Jackson, but it's a combination of this morning and the current situation that keep his mouth clamped shut as he surfs through a few of the channels he hadn't given a cursory glance. Danny notices, mouth twitching into a frown that doesn't escape Stiles' notice, and leaves him to his work. Stiles can hear Jackson round-up his team and the whole room becomes a lot less tense with the absence of so many bodies.

A new file catches his eye. "Someone needs to check the temperature," he mutters.

"What? Why?"

He looks up and Kira Yukimura is leaning over his shoulder. She gives him a sweet smile when she sees him look back. "Sorry, I was just listening."

"No that's fine." He chances a look at Kira's father, who is discreetly watching them while in a conversation with one of the engineers. "I was just saying, the temperature is dropping fast. It doesn't correlate with the changing composition of the atmosphere. It wouldn't be possible unless someone was messing with the sensors. Especially if you take into consideration that there's nowhere for anything to go but to disperse in the biome. I mean, at this point it's definitely sabotage." He looks up to find Kira focused on the screen. "How long ago did the Wranglers leave?"

Kira blinks and refocuses on Stiles. "Barely ten minutes ago, why?"

"The inhabitants of A07 could have been counting on them being there in response."

Lydia and Allison, who had to have been listening, stepped over. "You're saying what?" Lydia asks. "They're going to attack them as soon as they get in."

"Well, uh," Stiles hesitates. "It's the most plausible."

Allison seems to take his side. "Why else would someone sabotage the controls?" She directs it at Lydia, who scowls, which isn't a good look on her, and crosses her arms.

Lydia sighs. "I'll make sure they're aware of possible danger." She says it like she's just admitted defeat. "Stilinski, keep in touch in case they don't find anything. Otherwise, you're free to return to your quarters." She leaves in a flurry of motion, and Kira stays long enough to put a comforting hand on Stiles' shoulder before leaving to follow her. It leaves Stiles alone with Allison.

"I'll walk you back to your room."

Stiles wants to protest that he doesn't need to be escorted, but something in Allison's eyes tell him she needs the company just as much as he does. "Okay."

The walk from the bridge is mostly in silence. It's kind of nice though, the companionable kind where you don't feel alone even then, and Stiles feels a smile tug at his lips before the happy feeling gets replaced with something darker. It's like old times, and that's what hurts the most.

"It still hurts," Allison says, breaking the silence. "Sometimes I wonder if… if I hadn't been so rude the last time I saw him, if it would still hurt like this."

Stiles shakes his head. "It would probably hurt worse." Somehow his voice is steady.

Allison chokes back a strained sound. "I can't imagine, Stiles. I can't imagine what you're going through."

"But you kind of can."

She doesn't say anything for a while. They reach his door, and he keys in the code to open it. She notices the box by the door. "It doesn't feel the same, does it?"

"No, but everyone's set on pretending that it does."

"Maybe they think it'll hurt less."

Stiles shakes his head again. "It won't." Like slowly peeling away a bandage. He doesn't know if the metaphor of ripping it off fits the situation, the thought remains all the same.

Allison surprises him, though, when she pulls him into a tight hug. He can feel her tears as she burrows into his shoulder, but he can't help but feel numb as he wraps his arms around her. "Sometimes I feel like he's still with us."

Stiles thinks back to earlier. "I know."

She gives him one last squeeze then steps away and wipes her eyes on her sleeve. "Thank you." When Stiles doesn't make any move to say anything, she gives him a slight smile. "Goodnight, Stiles."

"Goodnight, Allison." The door slides shut.

He doesn't find sleep again that night.

* * *

_**A/N: As usual, the chapters are also available on AO3. From this point on the action should begin. Thanks for sticking around so long. :)**_


	5. Ghosts

Isaac is sitting alone at his usual table. He looks up when Stiles enters the cafeteria, and watches silently as Stiles gets his tray and stands at the corner of the room, looking decisively down each row of tables. He's surprised when Isaac nods in his direction and gestures to the seat beside him. He had been certain their tenuous friendship had been through with… Well, he didn't think he'd see much of the janitor anymore. He's not complaining. He's been practically alone since it happened, taking all of his meals in his room and only talking about work.

Stiles makes his way over and drops into the chair across from Isaac. He realizes he should probably try to at least act like his old self. That realization falls short when all he can muster is a quiet, "Hi."

His companion gives a slight smile in response and goes back to eating. This is okay. Stiles can deal with this.

They eat in silence, unchanged even as Boyd joins them. He doesn't talk much anyways, so it's no surprise, but he and Isaac keep looking expectantly at Stiles like they think he's going to explode any minute. Stiles gets those looks a lot these days.

He finishes, notices the others finished eating quite some time ago, and doesn't make a move to leave. Finally Isaac gets up and grabs the empty trays to dispose of them. Boyd claps Stiles on the shoulder, says, "Good to see you," and leaves.

Stiles gets up and moves on to finish his work for the day.

He passes Allison in the hall. She gives him a hug and asks him how he's doing. He replies with the customary, "I'm fine. How are you?" and she responds as such. He goes to the bridge. Danny all but drags him to the nearest screen and has him look over what feels like hundreds of charts. Sometimes they send Jackson off to fix things, sometimes they don't. Kira brings him dinner at 1900 and he eats it while flipping through the last charts and watching Lydia and Jackson argue in the next room over.

He falls into bed later than usual and exhausted, but that's okay. He's less likely to dream.

They fall into a routine after that. It's nice and comfortable, and it works.

Until it doesn't.

They pull into the next outpost on a Monday. There's some fancy interplanetary-accepted word for the date, but Stiles only thinks of it as a Monday. Monday sucks.

Captain Yukimura orders everyone off the ship while they refuel and Allison grabs him by the arm as they're leaving and pulls him along as she walks along stalls of overpriced merchandise. They eat lunch together and she talks the entire time, smiling and pointing at the people who pass and telling little stories about things they remind her of. Stiles plays along, but keeps his eyes on the ship when he can. He excuses himself as soon as the ship is open again.

Not many people are on board, because most are probably trying to get out some energy off-board or stock up on things they don't usually keep in the ship. Stiles just wants to take a nap in his room and maybe do a once over of the biome atmospheres before they take off. The only problem is that from this docking bay, he has to directly pass the B-level biomes.

He's been avoiding them since the accident. He knows it's stupid. They've already dropped off the species contained in B03, which was a huge weight off of Stiles' shoulders, and someone reset the controls so the biome would gradually adjust to the rest of the ship's temperature and gaseous levels. That was weeks ago. Now it would be perfectly safe inside for anyone to go unsuited. In fact, it could almost be considered safer within the biome than the rest of the ship.

That doesn't change the past.

Stiles tries his hardest not to stop, but he does anyway. Above the spherical surfaces of the biomes, which act as one way mirrors, there are walkways and railings. Stiles takes the stairs to the walkway above B03 and latches on to the railing, looking over the edge. The smoky atmosphere has dissipated, and the rocky, unforgiving surface has morphed to a lightly forested green stretch of land. He can't see the panel through the trees, but he knows it's there. If it weren't for the conflicting feelings in his head, it would be peaceful. As it is, Stiles feels like throwing up.

People have died in the biomes before. Stiles knew this even before taking the job. Every position in the ship is a risk, but he'd gone so long without accident that it just didn't seem possible. They'll move on and eventually forget that Scott was anything more than a name on a list and a warning for newcomers. Pretty soon they'll expect Stiles to do the same.

He sweeps his eyes over it once more, nearly finishes resolving never to set foot near B03 again if he can help it, and turns to leave when something catches his eyes. A glint of metal within the biome. He manages to look just in time to see a person disappearing slowly into one of the thicker clumps of trees.

At first, he freezes in shock. They left the occupants of B03 weeks ago, and no crew members are in this area of the ship at this time. At least, they shouldn't be. He grips the rail tighter and makes up his mind.

Stiles takes the stairs in twos and threes and nearly sprints to the opening. Some unimportant equipment is still sitting by the door where the Wranglers left them after unloading B03, and Stiles scoops up what could be useful before rushing to the door and keying in his passcode. He doesn't know what he's expecting, but he's surprised when the door slides open in the secondary chamber and he's blanketed in pleasantly warm air. Not that he really stops to enjoy it.

He's already fully inside the biome by the time he realizes exactly what he's doing. Stiles briefly loses his breath when a stab of panic hits him right between the ribs. He figures, like with most things, the less he thinks about it, the less it'll hurt. He clenches his shaking hands into fists and sets off through the clearing for the clump of trees he'd seen the figure disappear into.

Even though he's seen enough of those old horror movies with his dad, Stiles doesn't hesitate in breaking all the rules. "Hey," he calls out, hating how weak his voice sounds. "Is someone there?" First rule, don't call out your position.

Second rule, don't go into the dark alone. He weaves in between the first line of trees to the place where the undergrowth thickens and the leaves above block out most of the light. The ground crunches to his left. He whips around, nearly losing his balance and catching himself on the closest branch.

"Hello?"

Another crunching sound comes from somewhere in front of him, still slightly to the left. His mind is empty when he follows it, and he doesn't really think anything else as he squeezes through the brush and tries not to get tangled in the branches until he stops and realizes he's in the very place where Scott died.

The trees arch overhead and the door to the control panel is barely visible through tangled vines. The dirt underfoot its littered with dead leaves and moss, but there are no signs anyone was here. The miracle of technology has eradicated every memory of Scott's death save for the memories in Stiles' head. He chokes on a breath and sits down on the spot.

If he'd been just a little bit faster…

He loses himself on a train of thought he's been down many times in the past months. His fingers rake through the soil and he blearily hopes whatever is in the biome with him will strike him dead on the spot. It doesn't.

Stiles gets his breathing under control and pushes to his feet. He touches the door to the panel through the vines. He walks back through the trees, slower and less desperate. He lets the quiet rustle of leaves and the warm breeze soothe away his feelings.

He's okay now.

Before he reaches the chamber and the door back into the ship, he looks back over his shoulder. Scott is leaning against the tree in his cracked up suit. He smiles when he sees Stiles and he waves. If he's going crazy, he might as well embrace it. Stiles waves back.

And then he leaves.

When he's up in the bridge later and Danny asks him what he was doing in B03, Stiles simply replies that he was confronting his ghosts. Danny doesn't ask anymore questions after that.

* * *

_**A/N: Last bit of exposition before the good stuff.**_


End file.
